A Tale of What Might Have Been
by sanitynvrfoundme
Summary: What if the tragedy of Hamlet didn't end the way Shakespeare intended it to? What if Hamlet barely escaped Elsinore with his life only to find true love from another place and time? Will he lose it all and will the girl of his dreams lose her life?


What if the tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark didn't end the way Shakespeare wrote it? What if Hamlet didn't die in his infamous duel but killed his uncle only to have his mother die at his feet? What if he barely escaped Elsinore with his life only to have Laertes follow him desperately seeking revenge? Read and find out.

As Hamlet, Prince of Denmark stood, panting, staring at his opponent, Laertes, he was smiling. The bloody body of his uncle Claudius lay only some feet away, neatly run through by his nephew's rapier, and Hamlet was smiling. Thoughts, millions of them, ran through his head like stampeding cattle, and yet one pushed the rest into the outer limits of his brain. "Nothing can hurt me anymore. Nothing at all."

He had avenged the death of his beloved father, as was evident by the corpse staring wide-eyed at the ceiling of the large chamber, and by his mother silently weeping in the corner, surrounded with many of her ladies-in-waiting, having known of her new husband's treachery but inconsolable all the same. All the courtiers were whispering, now without a king to direct them not knowing whether to let Hamlet and Laertes battle it out, or to separate them bodily. Hamlet was sorely hoping the latter. He couldn't wait to feel his rapier pierce Laertes' flesh, to hear his dying scream, to watch Laertes beg for forgiveness at his feet before he finally slumped over.

But the main thought in his racing mind was that nothing could touch him anymore. Hamlet had gotten what he wanted. He had killed his uncle and was about to kill Laertes. Even if he died at Laertes' hands, he had still gotten his revenge. In all honesty, Laertes should be the one getting revenge. Hamlet had mistakenly murdered his father, causing his sister Ophelia's madness.

Ophelia. He thought about her every day and every night, and the wounds her death had left imprinted on his heart had still not scarred over and were still open and bleeding. Hamlet missed her, her long blonde hair that fell over her face when she smiled, her hazel eyes so open yet so clever. Even her ringing laugh echoed in his heart. But he had to forget. It was his fault, entirely his fault that she was not sitting here, smiling at him yet worried, and his fault that he could not console her with a small wink and a flash of a grin, one that would say, "It's all right. Soon we will leave this place." It was entirely his fault that Laertes stood glaring at him, a glare that could pierce through steel.

"Ophelia," Hamlet whispered, and just for a second his foil drooped at his side and he closed his eyes. That was all Laertes needed. With an animalistic bellow, he raced at Hamlet, who opened his eyes a second before his heart met the rapier.

"I am dead," he thought, and time stopped before weapon met flesh and a scream pierced the air. But it was not Hamlet's.

He fell to his knees and his mind registered only one thing before his mother fell to the ground, body in spasms, poisoned by her husband's trap intended for Hamlet. He was not completely untouchable, not as invincible as he had thought. For there, at his feet, lay the bleeding, dying form of his best friend Horatio.

Hamlet did not remember screaming. He did not remember throwing himself at Laertes and having to be restrained by several courtiers. The only picture in his mind was that of Horatio flailing desperately, falling, twisting to the ground. He untangled his arms from the strong grips that held him back and raced to Horatio's side, where his best friend lay, panting and bleeding from what looked like a painful chest wound.

"Horatio," Hamlet whispered, desperately trying not to choke up, and not wanting Horatio to hear the hidden sob in his voice. "You'll be okay. I'm calling for a doctor. Fetch a doctor!" Hamlet screamed almost hysterically, but the courtiers just looked at each other and shuffled their feet. Without a king to direct them, they were unhelpful and useless.

"Hamlet, it's alright," Horatio mumbled, the poison already working and disorienting him. "I'll be fine. You don't worry about me…" he trailed off. Hamlet leaped to his feet, eyes wildly scanning the room. "Get a DOCTOR!" But the crowd was motionless.

The young prince knelt by his friend's side again. "You're not going to die," he managed to say, almost as much to convince Horatio as to convince himself. He was struggling with the words and the tears were flowing freely now, and Hamlet could not even bring himself to wipe them away. And he knew now, as he heard Horatio's labored breathing and felt his heartbeat grow steadily softer, that his friend would not be with him much longer, yet he still had so much to say! The irony made Hamlet laugh bitterly through his tears: even if they had a year to say goodbye they would not have said enough, and now Hamlet had maybe a minute. He never thought it would come to this, kept hoping that those unsaid thoughts could remain thoughts and could always remain unsaid.

"I'm so sorry," Horatio whispered. "I don't know what to say, except that you were my dearest friend." He was crying now too. "Don't worry, my friend. You must run away and bury these horrible memories of Denmark. Forget this country altogether. But please, Hamlet, don't bury my memories with my body. Remember me always."

Hamlet had to smile. Even in death, Horatio was still ever so poetic. "I will."

"Thank you," Horatio whispered, then he gave Hamlet one last smile and took his last breath. The prince knew it was all over, and gently set down the body. He remained, standing over it for a moment, before wiping away one last tear and drawing his sword.

He stared at Laertes with an unsaid challenge in his smile. "I will kill you Laertes. But not now. We are in mourning, some of us." He was incredibly calm. The entire court stood on edge.

But no one expected Hamlet to run. He leaped sideways and ran for one of the secret passageways, so quickly that onlookers were almost tricked into thinking he had merely been a trick of the light, never truly there at all. But Laertes knew better, and with a mad cry, he chased after Hamlet.

The young prince knew he had a head start as he dashed along a corridor that led to his apartments. He knew he had to run, as Horatio had said, and the only flaw was that he had no idea where he was going. But that could wait. He shut and locked the passageway door and threw a chair against it as he arrived in his room.

What to pack, what to pack? He grabbed a sack and began to throw random items into it. Two traveling cloaks and some peasant garb that would serve as a handy disguise. Hamlet threw all the money he had into a spare pair of boots and chucked that into the sack too. A small coin purse filled with gold pieces he put into a special pocket in the lining of his black traveling cloak. At the last minute he darted to a hidden compartment in the wall and pulled it open to reveal a small vial of poison- very useful when contemplating suicide- a small dagger with a cross etched into the handle that he strapped around his waist, and last but not least, a small portrait of his father and his father's rapier-Hamlet's most prized possession. It was beautiful and gleamed in the light, and the young man regretted hiding it in his traveling sack, but he couldn't have himself be the object of attraction toward thieves and brigands.

He was about to run out of the room, hearing Laertes pounding down the corridor, when he spotted a small portrait of Ophelia still lying on the hidden shelf. He raced toward it, then stopped with his fingers grazing the edge, almost in a trance. As the soldiers began to hack down the door, Hamlet grabbed the portrait, then put it back and leapt for the door. Just as the first soldier ran inside, he darted back towards it, snatched the small object from the shelf as well as a hefty stool, and made a desperate leap for the door, but the soldier was quicker. The prince rammed into the soldier, throwing the man off balance, and drew his sword, running the man through. He slammed the door shut and threw the stool against it, locking it at least for the time being.

Finally out of the castle, Hamlet ran along the slush-covered ground, air freezing cold, yet the sun still beating down upon him. He had made his escape, but where to go now? The young man gazed out at the landscape surrounding him, then wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. There really was only one direction to go in- any that led away from that prison he called Elsinore.


End file.
